


Born Fucked

by goldendoods



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Slurs, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, written pre season 3 so only canon complaint up til then
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldendoods/pseuds/goldendoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The real problem with Ian Gallagher is that, for such a fucking smartass, he can be a real retard sometimes. He may make good grades in school and have learned all kinds of shit from Lip that no one ever bothered to teach Mickey, but he’s fucked in the way of common sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born Fucked

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on my lj back in 2012 after season 2 (lol, the fact that I've been in the fandom this long). Figured I'd post it here too. Sort of canon divergent now obviously. Sorry if the characterization is hella off. alSO, the ages are definitely wrong ohwell ohwell bye

 

 

  
I.

When Mickey was in sixth grade, he was best friends with Lip Gallagher. “Best friends” in the loosest sense of the term, because even then, Mickey didn’t really _do_ friends. Mickey didn’t know shit about how to be a nice guy, the kind of guy people would want to be friends with, but Lip did, apparently.

So, they were friends, whatever. Mostly they would just do dumb shit like kick a ball around or play video games, the cheap shitty ones, nothing too great, but Mickey thought it beat hanging out with his dumbass kid sister. They were in the same grade, back then, before Mickey had to stay back a year, and sometimes Lip would want to do fucking _homework_ , which, ugh, no thank you. Mickey would rather go to the fucking mall with Mandy.

But it was mostly good.

A lot of the time, though, Lip’s dumb kid brother would follow them around, which was annoying as fuck, but Lip barely ever told him to get lost. He had about a million siblings and there seemed to be more where that came from, so you couldn’t blame him for wanting to get away from them, but for whatever reason he didn’t mind when Ian would tag along, desperate to be included. Once he said something to Mickey about it, about how _he’s my baby brother and I’ve gotta protect him, you know how it is,_ which, actually, no, Mickey didn’t know shit about that, because none of his brothers ever gave a fuck about protecting him. But Jesus, who fucking knew about the Gallaghers.

Ian trailed around after them like a lost puppy, desperate to be included, in a way that would have been kind of pitiful if Mickey ever bothered to pity anyone. But on the other hand he _was_ only ten and he still had a little time to grow up. Mickey thought he better start figuring shit out soon, though, unless he wanted to seem like a total pussy. He hardly ever shut the fuck up, and he was always on about the dumbest shit, dumber even then some of the stuff Mandy said. Like how he wanted to be an airplane pilot when he grew up. Which, fuck, Mickey might not know shit but he knew that you had to be smart and good at shit for that, and guys from their neighborhood were better off forgetting about it.

Still, the kid wasn’t too bad to have around. When they would play video games he didn’t even mind being the one to just watch, and he was okay at football too—a faster runner than Lip or Mickey, though he couldn’t catch for shit.

\--

One time, Mickey stole a mostly-full bottle of vodka from his house (no one would even notice) and he and Lip sat out on the creaky old swings because Lip said Fiona would kill him if she found out. The truth was, Mickey kind of hated the stuff, hated the way it made his stomach burn and the way it tasted, but he didn’t want to be a pussy and Dad always said that it was an acquired taste anyway.

They were about a third of the way through the bottle when Ian showed up, the way he was always doing: out of fucking nowhere with his big dumbass puppy dog eyes. When he saw what they were doing he made a big fucking deal about it, until Lip threatened to kick his ass if he told Fiona. It was probably an empty threat, but Ian shut right up and then he asked if he could have some.

Mickey wouldn’t have cared but Lip said _no fucking way, you’re too young and it’ll make you sick._ Ian didn’t like that and he kept bugging Lip about it, begging for just a sip until Lip lost it and yelled at Ian to get the fuck out of there. The stupid kid’s eyes went huge and wounded, and then he took off, in the opposite direction from their house. Lip didn’t go after him, though, didn’t say anything, just glared at Mickey like he was daring him to say something. But Mickey didn’t give a shit if Lip decided he didn’t want to be the after-school special big brother anymore. The kid had to grow up sometime.

They passed the bottle between them a few more times until Lip said he should get back home. Mickey was secretly relieved because his stomach was starting to feel sour but he wasn’t gonna be the one to pussy out.

Mickey headed back towards his house with the bottle, stumbling a little, queasiness just on his heels, and he was just trying to decide whether he wanted to puke or not when he heard someone sniffling. He turned around and, sitting on some broken down porch and crying, there was Lip’s dumbass kid brother, who fucking else but Ian Gallagher.

Mickey was going to just keep going, because it was none of his business and not his fucking problem, but for some stupid reason he didn’t. For some stupid reason he went over and sat next to the goddamn kid next to a pile of trash. Ian sniffled and said “Hi” is such a pathetic voice that Mickey almost did throw up, then.

“Shit, Gallagher,” he said, “It’s not the end of the fucking world. It’s just booze.”

Ian just sniffled and looked away.

“Look, if it’s such a big deal, then just try it, Jesus.”

He handed the bottle to Ian, who grinned like Mickey had just handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Just drink it, Jesus Christ,” Mickey said and Ian took a little pussy swallow from the bottle. He coughed and made an awful pinched-up face that made Mickey laugh. “Tastes like shit,” Ian said. “You don’t drink it for the taste,” Mickey said, and Ian smiled again and took another gulp, longer this time, until Mickey grabbed the bottle away from him.

“Whoa, that’s enough,” he said. Then he added, “I don’t particularly feel like getting my ass kicked when you get sick and Lip blames me, dumbass.”

“I won’t tell him, I promise,” Ian said. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Mickey said gruffly, and then: “You really gotta stop crying. You’re too old for that now and people are gonna think you’re a pussy.”

“I know,” Ian said quietly, scrubbing furiously at his cheeks. “I will.”

Then Mickey wondered what the fuck he was doing talking to this dumb ten-year-old in the middle of the night. “I’m going home, and I suggest you do too, unless you feel like getting picked up by some pedo,” he said.

“’kay. Thanks,” Ian said again, but Mickey didn’t respond, just got up and started stumbling home again, annoyed and wondering when this stupid kid became his problem.

\--

It didn’t matter that much, though, because a few months later Ian abruptly stopped being Mickey’s problem when Mickey stopped hanging out with Lip Gallagher altogether. That was when he started middle school and quickly started to realize the kind of shit guys will say about you, the absolute worst shit that people can say about you. Worse than _your dad’s a drunk bastard,_ or your _brothers are creeps_ or _your sister’s gonna turn into a little slut_ or _your mom was a drugged-out whore before she ran off._ Worse than the shit he knows other kids say, the shit the teachers say, worse even than the shit his dad says, _you ain’t worth shit, Mickey, and you never will be._

He knew exactly what guys might start saying, and it was worse than any of that because once they started saying it, he wouldn’t be able to stop them from saying it, no matter how many asses he kicked. So he stopped hanging out with Lip altogether, just like that, just told him to fuck right off one day and offered no explanation, and that was the last he saw of either of them for a long time.

Because if there was one thing that Mickey knew, it was that no one was gonna call him a faggot.

 

 

 

II.

When Mickey realized what he was, he was so angry that he decided that he was actually gonna kill someone, if he could only figure out who to blame.

He would blame that stupid asshole God if he believed in him. Or his asshole parents who never gave him anything except the chance to live in a fucked-up world, an inclination towards aggression and alcoholism (according to that social worker bitch), and a gene that fucked him over even worse. Dumb shits should’ve had the good sense to not to keep going after they already had two loser kids.

He’d like to blame the whole fucking world, the whole fucking universe, but that would be a lot of people to kill.

He wasn’t gonna blame himself, though, because he may be stupid but he’d never be stupid enough to choose this for himself, and he may be a bastard but he never did anything bad enough to deserve that.

So what the fuck was he supposed to do? He had already tried fucking about a thousand girls, whatever sluts he could convince, and got nowhere. It was fucking awful, honestly, because they always made these grating whining noises and smelled like cheap perfume and hairspray and their tits looked really weird close up and they were soft and flabby around their hips. He kept trying, though, all through ninth grade. He put more effort into fucking these dumb skanks than he’d ever put in at school or anything else. He tried, and he tried, but he couldn’t make it work.

Well, fuck it all, then. He cut class practically all the time but he knew a few things, and one of them was that shit happens, and bitching about it won’t get you anywhere. Basically all you can do is look at your options, however few, and figure out what you’re gonna do. How you’re gonna get by.

So he looked at his options and decided what he was gonna do. He decided to stop being angry, at least until he could figure out who to blame about it. He looked at his options and then, on the heels of his fifteenth birthday, he started working out how to find a guy to fuck him.

Christ. You gotta survive somehow, right?

 

 

 

III.

His first mistake was fucking Ian Gallagher in the first place. His second mistake was letting it happen more than once.

He should’ve known, honestly. He should’ve known it would eventually come to this. That damn kid was always making problems for Mickey, always showing up when he least wanted him and getting in the way with his big stupid sad eyes, and Mickey should’ve figured that he’d end up here in his bed, too. Fuck.

The first time it happened, you could forgive him. Mickey did what anyone would do in the situation. Ian was right there and there wasn’t really time to think about whether or not it might be a good idea. Besides, you gotta recognize your opportunities when they present themselves. And here was an opportunity, between Mickey’s legs, looking up at him with wide eyes, and how had he never realized before?

But, fuck, he should’ve known better than to let it happen again. He should’ve known how it would end up, that nothing could ever just be simple with that kid. Because once it was the second time, it may as well have been the hundredth time. After Mickey left the store he could already see the future of this shit laid out in front of him, clear as day, and the stupid look on Ian’s face when he left, and he was already cursing at himself for being an idiot.

But he knew just as clearly that he would let it keep going, natural as the winter melting into spring. Because Jesus, the chances of finding a regular fuck buddy who he could trust to keep it quiet and wasn’t crawling with STDs were about as good as those of Mickey making the honor roll next semester.

And besides, he would never in a million years say this out loud but Ian was the best fuck he’d ever had. Sometimes, when they were going at it, he felt like his insides were all lit up. Or something like that.

\--

The real problem with Ian Gallagher is that, for such a fucking smartass, he can be a real retard sometimes. He may make good grades in school and have learned all kinds of shit from Lip that no one ever bothered to teach Mickey, but he’s fucked in the way of common sense.

He’s got some big dreams about getting the fuck out of this neighborhood and being in the goddamn Army. He has this stupid habit of always expecting things to turn out alright, despite an entire lifetime to show otherwise. He was never smart enough to learn the kind of pain you’ll get from hoping too much.

Ian lives in some goddamn dream world, where his brother never stops being that childhood hero, where his parents won’t be assholes, where he expects to get offered a fucking scholarship to Yale or whatever and he thinks people are gonna throw him a gay pride parade and Mickey will get down on one knee. He has no fucking clue.

Mickey thought he told him six years ago to stop being such a goddamn pussy and grow up, but maybe the message never sunk in, because Ian is perpetually hopeful and yearning, and then he’s perpetually heartbroken when things don’t happen the way he’d wanted. A living, breathing tragedy.

And then, somehow, it always becomes Mickey’s problem. As if he doesn’t have enough shit to deal with, without this kid coming in and looking all sad-eyed and devastated and Mickey just wants to say _what the fuck did you expect,_ every goddamn time.

Such a dumbass. Mickey should never have gotten involved.

 

 

 

 

IV.

He gets head from Ian one morning when Mandy is asleep in the next room with some guy she brought home from a bar. They’re completely fucked out, no chance of waking, but still.

Because he’s the worst kind of overachiever, Ian says “You can come in my mouth,” right before he starts, all earnest and smug, fucking smartass. It’s good, _really_ good, and Mickey has to stuff his hand in his mouth just in case Mandy’s fuck buddy wakes up. Mickey finishes in barely two minutes, but Christ, what do you want from him, it’s not even eleven AM and Ian is really good at giving head, a whole lot better than that chick with the nose ring, better than the guy who he worked with at that factory last summer.

When Mickey comes, Ian swallows all of it. He grins up at Mickey from the bottom of the bed with his hair falling into his eyes and looking more pleased with himself than anyone has the right to be, and Mickey suddenly can’t find one single thing about him to hate.

“Thought you had to be at third period,” he says, finally, hating how his voice sounds breathless.

“I’m not showing up late to school with a hard-on,” Ian says, wiping his mouth.

Mickey knows what that means. He’s knows the way this works, any idiot gets the concept, and he’s not so much of an ass to not know to reciprocate.

“Like you’ve never done it before,” he says, and then he pulls Ian up and flips them over so Ian is on his back. He’s not built to do anything in one smooth motion, and it’s awkward for a moment, when their faces are too close and Ian gets wide-eyed like he thinks something else is gonna happen. This is why Mickey usually sticks to fucking. None of the complications. “Keep it down, right?”

When he manages to get Ian’s shorts pushed down, he doesn’t waste time, doesn’t mess around. The truth is, he’s never actually sucked dick before, but Mickey is mostly a self-taught kind of guy anyway. So he goes for it, swallows as much as he can take without any of that foreplay bullshit. He gags a little but doesn’t let it deter him.

“Ah, shit, stop stop stop,” Ian gasps, panicked, and Mickey pulls off and glares at him, annoyed. “What the fuck?” he says.

“Don’t—can you go slower,” Ian says, and his cheeks glow red. “Otherwise I’ll—I can’t last.”

“Fine, Christ,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. “Bossy fucker.”

He goes back down and this time he does go slower, even though it’s against his nature, even though he’s always known sex to be best fast and rough and over right away, like pain. He goes slower because Ian asked him to and he doesn’t owe Ian anything but maybe he wants to.

He did this to a girl, once, because she said she’d let him put it in her ass after (she didn’t, lying bitch), and it was fucking horrible. It was wet and messy and disgusting and she yelled at him the entire time. This, though, is really different. Ian smells good even between his legs, like soap and sweat, and Mickey likes the way his cock feels on his tongue, and the little noises he makes. Ian loops his legs around Mickey’s back and when he digs his heels in, Mickey feels the burn of arousal starting again in his own gut.

It’s only when Ian put his hand under Mickey’s ear and touches him really gently and starts saying his name in a weird soft voice that Mickey starts wanting it to be over. That’s when he starts sucking harder and gets Ian to the finish line.

Mickey swallows once and then starts gagging because, shit, there’s a _lot_ and the taste is kinda worse than he was expecting. Still, he thinks he could get used to it after a couple tries. He pulls off and spits into an empty beer can that he finds on the floor.

“Charming,” Ian says, grinning and flushed.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says with no heat at all. “Your cum tastes like shit.”

“You don’t do it for the taste,” Ian says, teasing.

Mickey sits up. All of a sudden, he feels sick, like he swallowed too much, and he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

It must show, because Ian’s face changes, and he says “Mick, I was kidding...”

“I know,” Mickey says, wiping his mouth. He feels ashamed and he doesn’t even know why. “You better split.”

“Come on, I can go again, I just need one—”

“What you need is to get the fuck out of my house before my sister wakes up,” Mickey snaps.

Ian’s face shutters. He stands up fast on shaky legs and jerks his pants up. “Whatever, man, fuck you,” he says. He doesn’t slam the door on his way out but it seems like he wants to.

Mickey goes into the bathroom and sticks his mouth under the faucet. Whatever. He doesn’t even care. Ian will get over it and they’ll be fucking again in a week. That’s how it always goes.

 

V.

 

One night, when it’s really hot, they sneak out to the old abandoned playground to get wasted and fuck. Only they never get to the second part, because Ian practically passes out right away, like a little pussy. Lying flat on his back on the grass with his eyes closed, barely moving, after only what, six, seven shots?

“I’ll be ready to go in a sec,” he mumbles, not moving. Yeah right. He’s too far gone to sit up, never mind get hard.

“When’d you become such a fuckin’ lightweight, Gallagher?” Mickey says, taking another pull from the bottle.

“M’not,” Ian says. “Just tired.”

Mickey’s about to say that’s fucking stupid. But then he thinks about what it must be like to live in that household, with all those smartass kids and all the shit they’re always getting into, and on top of that how Ian’s always obsessed with school and his army training or whatever the fuck, and yeah, it kinda makes sense that he’d be tired. Almost makes Mickey feel bad about being such a demanding asshole all the time. Almost.

“Whatever,” he says. He plucks the smoldering joint out of Ian’s fingers and takes a drag, but there’s not enough to get a good hit. He flicks it into the grass, disgusted.

He pulls his heels up to his ass and puts his arms around his knees. The sky is clouded by too much pollution to see many stars, just a few blinking lights. Mickey thinks about how Ian used to talk about being a pilot all the time. Mickey’s never been on a plane. He’s never even been outside of Illinois. Nowhere worth going anyway.

He feels like an idiot, just sitting next to Ian, and if anyone saw him they’d definitely think he was a fag. He wishes they’d brought more weed. Shit.

“Mick?” Ian says quietly, surprising Mickey, who thought he was asleep for sure.

“Mm?”

“When do you think things will start getting better?”

Mickey is so pissed he doesn’t even know how to answer. He wants to punch Ian. He wants to rip his fucking head off for asking stupid questions.

“This is as good as it gets, princess,” he says finally, but Ian doesn’t answer. He’s asleep. Probably for the best anyway. He’d take it the wrong way.

Mickey doesn’t know shit but he knows that it doesn’t get better for guys like them, not ever. If Ian thinks there’s a promised land waiting for them on the other side of adolescence, then he deserves the disappointment he’s gonna get.

Mickey leans back, propping himself up on his arms. He feels the familiar curdle of unusable anger in his stomach and in his chest. Ian is so stupid, stupid, stupid, and Mickey was stupid for coming here tonight.

With his eyelashes casting shadows on his face and his mouth just slightly open, Ian looks impossibly young in his sleep, and defenseless. But Mickey knows he’s not defenseless, and besides, he’s got a family to look after him. He doesn’t need a protector.

Mickey wants to get up and run, as far as his legs can carry him, somewhere where no one knows him and no one has ever heard of Ian Gallagher. It wouldn’t be kind, leaving Ian drunk and asleep here in this old shitty park, but Mickey never claimed to be kind and he knows Ian has woken up hungover in worse places.

But he doesn’t go. He can’t move, and anyway, Ian could always outrun him. He’d catch up eventually, one way or another.

Mickey was stupid enough to fuck Ian in the first place and he was stupid enough to come here tonight, and he’s stupid enough for this, too. He rolls over on his side and put his hand on the side of Ian’s face, two fingers cupping his jaw, feeling the stubble there. Because he’s still stupid enough to want things. In the distance, a woman yells and a door slams, and Mickey leans down and presses their mouths together.

Ian’s lips are dry and chapped around the corners, but they’re still warm and soft and pretty much just as nice as you’d imagine.

When Mickey pulls away, Ian doesn’t even stir. Mickey lies back on the grass and digs his fingers into the dirt, like he might fall off the spinning earth if he doesn’t hang on. His eyes sting and his throat burns and he can’t do anything but look up at the stupid starless sky and blink and swallow and blink and swallow.

He must be the stupidest person in the whole world.

_When do you think things will start getting better?_ But Mickey knows that things aren’t ever getting better, not for guys like them. Not with this neighborhood, their families, and the way things are. Mickey may just be a stupid, worthless faggot but he knows this much: guys like them are fucked, born fucked and fucked until the day they die, done in by bad lungs or livers or some cokeheads with bats that find them at the wrong place and the wrong time. It’s nothing less than a whole lifetime of pure bad luck.

And Mickey, he’s fucked worst of all.

 

 

_fin_  
  


**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you want! and/or come yell at me about ian/mick at damneron.tumblr.com


End file.
